Don't expect brilliance. Mediocre at best.

Clay

The ice slid off her skin, goosebumps arose,
The warmth of his touch, a story of the past,
It wasn’t the cold she feared, it was the desolation she dreaded,
The dark and the light battled in glee at her conflicted consciousness,
Unaware of being made into the pawn, she gave into her conflicts,
Uncomprehending the abyss lying ahead, she hesitated not,
She was the dice, yet not the decider of the game, merely a pawn,
A puny toy, she wasn’t worth a sacrifice, nor worth the worship,
Yet she fell, feeling cherished one moment and discarded the other,
She lay, in her own pyre, burnt in irony, charred and stunted, pitied by none, yet moulded by many.